And sometimes you don’t know where it comes from.
It appears as a heat, prickly, under your skin, your scalp.
You open a book and find it there pulsing, on a page where it wasn’t before, by a person whose name you do not recognise.
It appears to have been lying in wait for you, for just this precise moment of tiredness and openness.
It is like an accident, a jar falling to the floor, a bump in the car, as we say in slow motion.
Somewhere below your belt your insides shift a bit. They gurgle.
You realise you are muttering the words under your breath, like a woman you saw in a waiting room once.
You hope no one walks in and catches you.
You go to the internet. There is nothing to be found about the poem there, nor its author.
You go back to trying to trust the thing in front of you, double checking the spine of the book for signs of tampering.
You mention it to no one.
You think you may have fallen in love.
You have to go out. You hope the poem will still be there when you get back. You half believe it won’t be.
You mention it to no one.
Until now.
Cups
They know us by our lips. They know the proverb
about the space between us. Many slip.
They are older than their flashy friends, the glasses.
They held water first, are named in scripture.
Most are gregarious. You’ll often see them
nestled in snowy flocks on trestle tables
or perched on trolleys. Quite a few stay married
for life in their own home to the same saucer,
and some are virgin brides of quietness
in a parlour cupboard, wearing gold and roses.
Handless, chipped, some live on in the flour bin,
some with the poisons in the potting shed.
Shattered, they lie in flowerpot, flowerbed, fowlyard.
Fine earth in earth, they wait for resurrection.
Restored, unbreakable, they’ll meet our lips
on some bright morning filled with lovingkindness.
Gwen Harwood, from Emergency Kit (Edited by Jo Shapcott and Mattew Sweeney, Faber, 1996)
Anthony Wilson 
This is how I find myself floored, on occasion, sideswiped by a video-game I didn’t see coming.
Strange how I hold out hope for this technology when I’d be much more likely to fall in love with words printed on a page.
But there you go, to each his own.
Games are my very own, precious.
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This is how I find myself floored, on occasion, sideswiped by a video-game I didn’t see coming. Strange how I hold out hope for this technology when I’d be much more likely to fall in love with words printed on a page. But there you go, to each his own. Games are my very own, precious.
Andy
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Hi Andy
So pleased this post spoke to you about your thing. Marvellous to hear. Really appreciate you stopping by. Also, I completely forgot about your interview thing, forgive me. Is August any good or has the moment passed? As ever with best wishes, Ant x Anthony Wilson
Love for Now, my memoir of cancer, is availablehere
Riddance, my new book of poems, is availablehere
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Thanks, not sure why that comment came up twice.
August could work. I’d need two hours of your time I think. Maybe 8th Aug? Do you have an office at the University we could film in?
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No Worries re x2 comments! Feeling very appreciated! 8th August is good, great, thanks, yes, have an office. A
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I know exactly what you mean Ant – have been knocked sideways by Fleur Adcock’s new collection btw
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So lovely of you to say so Babs. Great to know the old technologies still work. Xx Ant
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Loved the Cups poem and also your lead-in to it…Yes, side-swiped, blind-sided, however it happens. A poem, a painting, a person, a post! Thank you for this one…
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Glad you liked this one. It completely floored me when I first came across it. That’s what I wanted to get across.
As ever, Anthony
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My pleasure! So pleased you saw it. Thank you Anthony Anthony Wilson
Love for Now, my memoir of cancer, is availablehere
Riddance, my new book of poems, is availablehere
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